


Parousia

by DoubleDog



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Supernatural (TV) Fusion, Angel!Connor, Gen, Hunter!Hank, M/M, Other, everything is a parable, massive biblical liberties, the Ultimate Pacifist Markus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-25 19:21:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16666756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoubleDog/pseuds/DoubleDog
Summary: Some people believe it to be the Second Coming, while others only see a false prophet. They say that his return will bring upon the Rapture, and the Final Judgement, and the End of All Things. They also say that he wears a trench coat and that he once did a sick back flip onto a moving car.In light of the appearance of this new Christ (or perhaps, Antichrist), Heaven and its host of angels are in uproar. Something must be done.They just don't seem to understand that Hank is retired.





	Parousia

> “They will say, ‘Where is the promise of his parousia? For since the fathers fell asleep, all things are continuing as they were from the beginning of creation.’”
> 
> _-2 Peter 3:4_

 

Indiana is a god-forsaken, unforgivably large, state-shaped cornfield.

If Hank had been in Indianapolis there’d at least be some seedy bars and semi-decent motels to waste time in. But he isn’t in Indianapolis. Of course not. He’s out in some corn maze that’s in a sad way- the pathway carved through the stalks is about as tricky to navigate as a darkly lit parking lot.

Dusk had fallen faster than he had expected, but it doesn’t really matter. The crickets are practically screaming. Hank rustles in his thick jacket for a moment, then pulls out a beat-up flashlight. It takes a few shakes before it blinks to life, busted old thing, and he directs the flickering beam around his surroundings.

Corn, corn, and wait- what’s that? Oh yeah, more corn.   

His flashlight passes over a human shape for all of an instant. He brings the light back to the shape and lets it linger.

“Goddamn, you’re an ugly son of a bitch,” Hank whistles, stepping up closer to the scarecrow. The straw is poking out in all directions from its overstuffed shirt and its creator had painting a wide, gaping maw of a mouth on its face. The button eyes glints as he passes over them with his flashlight. Hank represses a shudder. Scarecrows always manage to come off uncanny as hell, no matter how shittily they were made.

Hank stares at it a moment longer. Its only movement is a slight sway in a passing breeze. Coming to a decision, Hank reaches up and snatches the wide-brimmed hat from its head.

“Won’t be needing this,” he says quietly before continuing on forward. He tugs the hat on himself, ignores the itch of some stray pieces of straw that are likely still stuck to the fabric. After a little bit more walking, he stops. Bingo.

Leaning over his discovery, Hank steadies the flashlight on the hunk of metal in front of him.  

“Not so tough anymore huh, buddy.” And then Hank drives his foot forward in a forceful, steel-tipped toe kick right into the belly of the beast.

The generator groans.

He kneels down to inspect the generator properly. God, this thing is a real old piece of shit. A miracle it even kept going this long, frankly. Hank sighs and spends a hot minute sussing out the recoil cord, then another couple yanking the damn thing over and over until the old generator starts sputtering. A few more tugs and the machine rumbles to life, albeit shakily.

Hank has to push himself up using the generator, feels the vibrating hum of the thing at work through his hands.

There. The power would be back on at the farmhouse now. Easy.

But. It had gotten... quiet. Hank takes his hands off the generator and pauses. He can still hear the rattle of the generator in front of him, loud and clear, but there’s no sound behind him. The crickets had stopped. The frogs croaking from the nearby pond had stopped. It all stopped.

The cornstalks stand, silent, tall shadows beyond the beam of his flashlight.

There isn’t a breeze but he hears the corn rustle. There isn’t a breeze, but he feels the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He knows. He knows before he turns around.

Two men stand in the small clearing, directly between him and the path back to the house. They’re both wearing denim and flannel, like most of the locals, but one of them is barefoot. Something that looks like mud is caked up to his knees. Neither of them carries anything with them- no pitchforks, no machetes. No flashlights. They had walked here in the dark.

When Hank aims the flashlight directly ahead, two sets of eyes glitter back, brighter than buttons.

“You boys get lost or something?” Hank tries, one hand creeping towards his belt, “I could give you some directions.”

“Andersssson,” one of them hisses in response. Its mouth struggles around the word because it’s chalk full of sharp, needled teeth.

Aw, shit.

Hank draws his gun the same moment they lurch forward. He gets off one shot, two shots. The third slugs the muddy one between the eyes, the force of it throwing the guy to the ground just as his friend slams Hank against the generator. Pain laces up through his back on impact. His gun flies out of his hand, thrown down somewhere into the night.

Up close he can see the dark stains smudged around the thing’s mouth, flakey like dried blood. It twists its hands into Hank’s jacket and draws him up with unnatural strength, feet off the ground, and leans dangerously close to his face.

“You ssssmell foul,” it says, nose wrinkling. As it speaks, he gets a huge waft of putrid breath, rancid as rotten meat. Hank can’t stop the laugh that bubbles out of him.

The vampire snarls and slams Hank into the generator again, driving the air out of him with a grunt. The scarecrow hat slips off, falls to the ground. The needle-like teeth don’t look like they would fit in its mouth- there are too many, overlapping and jammed. Nothing about it is pretty.

“Ssstupid missstake,” it continues as it yanks Hanks head back with one hand in his hair. The nails feel too sharp. “Out here. Alone. No friendsss.” He can see the beady eyes trained on his jugular as he swallows.

“Wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Hank grunts while looking behind the thing.  

The vampire jerks its head around to look and Hank moves, whipping his flashlight in a wide arc. It collides with the side of its temple with a crack and Hank is dropped, stumbling once he hits the ground before staggering into a run.

No point in making a dive for his gun. He spares one glance behind him, sees the talkative one struggling to get up and the one with the bullet in the head getting to its feet. No, small caliber bullets mean nothing.

A shotgun would be mighty helpful. So would a machete. But what he has is a flashlight, wheezing lungs, and a gut filled with cheap bourbon.

It doesn’t take long for him to come up upon the ugly, now hatless, scarecrow. It shudders as he throws himself against it. Hank curses. He pulls at it from behind, hears it creak.

The two vampires have caught up, god knows when, and are taking their time approaching him. They smile sharp smiles, which, well, the whole thing probably looks ridiculous. They look like they had been out for a stroll, no sign of a chase or recent head trauma, and Hank is panting like he’d run a marathon while hugging a scarecrow.

No witty banter. They simply dart forward in a blur, so fast that his eyes can’t track the movement. Hank throws his whole bodyweight into a desperate tug and feels the scarecrow snap. There are splinters in his hands. They shift painfully as he adjusts his grip on the wood.

There’s a moment, then. A moment of hesitation. Why is he trying so hard? Isn’t this what he wanted? As if death would be more dignified at his own hands, as if it would matter who finished it. But. Maybe the vampires wouldn’t be so quick about killing him.

Fuck it. Running off instinct alone, Hank brings the wooden pole around in both hands, broken tip out like a sword, and drives it forward.

It doesn’t matter that he can’t see because he feels the resistance of it as the scarecrow pole hits its mark. The shock of it reverberates up his arms, the thing shrieks, the other one coming in from the side. Hank tugs the stake out; ignores the spray of wet gore hitting his front.

He isn’t fast enough. The other one hurls into him sideways, knocking the both of them to the ground.

Hank feels the pinpricks of teeth near his clavicle. Just pinpricks. Thank god. His thick jacket is the only thing keeping the vampire from taking off a chunk of his shoulder.

“Should’ve gone for the neck,” he says viciously and then drives the stake up between them.

The vampire makes a choking sound, the words mangled around Hank’s shoulder. Something wet is sluggishly dripping onto his hands. His grip is slippery with it as he pushes the guy off of himself.

Head tilting to the side, he surveys the scene without bothering to sit up. His flashlight lays forgotten on the ground and it shines on the two bodies, two sets of eyes glittering back. Neither of them move. 

Hank stays on the ground for a few minutes, panting for a pathetically long time. By the time he catches his breath the flashlight gives up, leaving him lying in the dark with two bodies and a broken scarecrow. The crickets start up again, loud as ever.

“Fuckin’ Indiana,” he groans decisively, and then staggers to his feet to clean up the mess.   

* * *

 

The farmhouse is peaceful. Hank has one hand on Sumo, fingers deep in the dog’s thick fur. His other hand holds a half-empty bottle of whisky situated on his thigh and the tv plays some sort of crime show reruns.

“ _We found a body,_ ” the suited man on the tv says, taking a dramatic pause. “ _A body... but no head._ ”

The people on screen gasp. Hank snorts and changes the channel.

It had taken more than an hour to dig up a place for the vampire bodies. Longer still to make sure it was done properly. He had cleaned off in the horrible water pressure the homeowners called a shower, but hey. At least they had a shower.

He’s housesitting, technically. Or was it farmsitting? The farm is small, corn maze aside, and the house is, well. The word dainty is nice enough. It sure is nicer than most of the motels he’s used to staying in.

Not that it mattered since he’d have to move on, now.

Hank wonders how they found him. He’d been keeping a low profile for years, no cases, no meddling. His last run-in with the unnatural had been more than a year ago- and his last run-in with a vamp coven even longer. Hell, last month he’d seen the sure-fire signs of a banshee haunting and he’d just breezed on through.

Keeping one of the blood-suckers alive would’ve been a smart move but hell, Hank’s out of practice. So now he has no idea if it was just the two of them on his ass, or a whole train of them.

It’s a huge fucking shame. He was getting used to staying in one place, the boredom of Indiana notwithstanding.

Hank takes a swig of the whiskey. As he feels the burn travel down, the house lights flicker, briefly.

He stiffens, body on high alert from experience alone, and he only relaxes after minutes pass without another incident.

“Old goddamn generator,” Hank mutters. If he had to go out to that dumb cornfield twice in one night he really would be forced to blow his brains out.  

Hank doesn’t think about the lights again until he hears Sumo’s deep growl start up from his spot next to the couch.

Sumo is an old, grumpy baby. But he rarely growled at anything or anyone, let alone a room full of nothing. A chill goes through him as Hank stands from the couch; he tries to make the transition steady despite the sluggish way his body is responding.

“What is it, boy?” Hank calls out. The growling gets louder. “Sumo, what is-”

His cell phone rings. Hank snatches it off the side table and frowns when the screen doesn’t display a number. “What-”

The house phone starts ringing. Hank looks up from the phone in his hand, vibrating and ringing, and looks to the landline phone ringing on the wall. He has a second to think about the salt in the kitchen. Why did he leave it in the kitchen?

Hank expects the temperature to drop, expects something in the room to start levitating. He does not expect the tv to start flipping through channels. The glow washes the room in rapidly changing colors with soundbites mashing together. Hank drops his phone and hits the power button on the remote.

The tv doesn’t react; instead, the volume of the soundbites grows louder. The pictures change faster.

Shit. He rushes to the kitchen, throws open the cabinets, grabs the container of salt from the shelf. Any growling is drowned out by the sound of the tv, even though it’s a room away. Taking the salt with him, Hank returns to the living room and smacks the power on the television itself. It shuts off with a blip.

His relief is short lived as the tv flickers back on a few moments later.

He tries to swallow the panic as the channel flipping is replaced by static, the sound mixing with the shrill ringing still emitting from both phones. A high-pitched whine reaches his ears, a spontaneous form of tinnitus, but it’s impossible to know where it’s coming from.

First the vampires, now this? It can’t be a coincidence. Nothing about this screams ‘vampire’ though, Hank thinks, as he pours salt around where he stands in a circle.

He’s nearly done closing the salt circle when the static and ringing (his ears, the phones, all indistinguishable) racket up to an ungodly volume.

It feels like the noise is infested in his brain. Hank falls to the ground, knees hitting the thin carpet hard, and presses his hands to his head.

God. Oh, fuck. His head feels like it’s being split apart. Worse than a migraine. Worse than any hangover he’s ever had.

His stomach revolts and Hank heaves over to lose all the pizza and whiskey he’s had over the night. The noise doesn’t stop. He can’t tell if it’s the house shaking or him. Distantly he hears the sound of glass shattering, feels something sharp cut into his arms. Hank doesn’t see it- he has his eyes squeezed shut as he curls in on himself.

He has no idea how long he stays there for, curled up on the ground next to his own vomit. There is a definite possibility of blood coming out of his ears. He thinks, faintly, about how it’s a bad way to go. Death by vamps would have been nicer.

Minutes pass like hours, the time stretching infinitely in a new sort of torture. And then. Just as suddenly as the attack had begun, it stops. Silence descends. The house goes quiet all at once. Hank begins unfolding himself from the floor, his breath heavy in his chest, and looks around.  

The house is a scene of carnage. 

Glass covers a good part of the floor from some of the now shattered windows. The television set had short circuited; Hank would bet that the house phone is busted too. Some of the lightbulbs had burst. At some point Sumo had run outside, and he refuses to walk back over the house’s threshold. Smart guy.

Hank spends the rest of the night awake, sitting defensively in a salt-rimmed corner, shotgun in hand. He’s almost disappointed when the sun rises without any sign that there had been anything amiss in the first place.

* * *

 

Two weeks later Hank is in Michigan.

He’s seated at a small bar in Grand Rapids, nursing three fingers of brandy. A hockey game plays on the tv above him and the bartender, an older man with a smoker’s voice, leaves him well enough alone. The bar itself is sticky and two of the other patrons are arguing loudly, but Hank slouches, feeling relaxed.

In the week following the farmhouse, the freakish “attacks” happened three more times. They were all the same: they’d start up suddenly, anytime of day or night, and would leave Hank in some state on the floor. The second one turned on all the faucets in the room and almost flooded the carpet into a bog. The third one shattered his motel mirror, and the fourth one turned on the printer. Which then proceeded to print a bunch of inky, blacked-out pages. Creepy.

None of the following attacks have had the same intensity of the first night, thank fucking god.

They only happened when he was alone. Salt circles did nothing. Demonic sigils did nothing. Hopping around from town to town did nothing. Being haunted by a malevolent, invisible bastard sucked ass. He still isn’t sure how to defend himself from an enemy he can’t see, can’t touch.

This week, though? Nothing. No weird, unpredictable shrieking or static whines. No electronic disturbances, no induced migraines. Hank isn’t stupid enough to assume it’s over, so he spends as much time as possible in public even if it makes his skin itch.

Consequently, Hank has been spending more of his nights in bars. Did it hurt his wallet? Yeah. Has he been enjoying himself? A little. It’s hard not to. The alcohol is largely better and the company is... well, it’s something.

This isn’t his first brandy of the night. Everything is pleasantly fuzzy, head-quiet. Hank is considering going home (to his most recent motel, with Sumo, which is home enough) when someone taps him on the shoulder.

“Excuse me,” the stranger says lightly. Probably wants to talk sports since Hank is sitting in the prime television spot. Hank likes hockey, but not enough to make conversation about it.

“Fuck off,” Hank responds gruffly, “Plenty of seats by the door.” He takes a sip of his drink and doesn’t bother looking up.

He can feel the guy still standing there, unmoving, as if that’s gonna make Hank change his mind. It’s not. Hank ignores him and watches the game.

“Hank Lawrence Anderson.”

That gets his attention.

It’s like standing in a cornfield in the dark; it’s like being called off the roster at boot camp for the first time. Nine out of ten times, people knowing his name in any capacity is a threat in itself. He fully expects a mouth full of knives or red eyes or some new horrifying shit, so when he slowly turns to size up the stranger who just dropped his whole fucking name, he also drops a hand towards the knife in his jacket.

There’s no red eyes or weird teeth waiting for him. The guy- god, he’s young, at least he looks young- appears perfectly normal. Everything about him is boyish, right down to the nice face, neat dark hair, and big brown eyes.

Boyish, except the suit. That tie is in a perfect knot, smoothed flat and straight against a crisp shirt. The black jacket is spotless, wrinkle-free, perfectly cut. Hank would guess Fed but he’s wearing a _waistcoat_. It manages to make him look more out of place than if he had been sporting any tell-tale demon signs.

Hank would bet anything that if he looked down, he’d see a pair of shiny shoes. They always have shiny shoes. He doesn’t look down, though.

“Who’s asking?” Hank says after a moment while projecting an air of indifference. He tries not to react to the way the stranger seems to light up at the acknowledgement, the way his shoes squeak against the bar’s tacky floor when he steps closer.

“My name is-” he stops, mouth open, before shutting it into a thin line. A small crease appears between his eyebrows and it looks a lot like frustration. Like he’s swallowed a lemon. It’s a small thing but the strangeness of it puts Hank on edge. The hand that isn’t on his knife itches towards the salt packets on the counter. Hank’s seen enough to know. Whatever the hell this guy is, it isn’t _human_.

The crease smooths out and the young man tries again.

“My name is... Connor,” the man says carefully, then smiles, “I’m the angel sent by heaven.” 

Hank laughs.

Hank laughs so hard that he has to lean on the bar with his forearms. Connor doesn’t laugh, but he doesn’t lose the weird, out-of-place smile either. He just stays standing, that small smile on his face, and leans into Hank’s personal space.

“I have been looking for you, Hank,” he explains patiently, expression eager. It’s disconcerting as hell. “We need to talk.”

“About what? Our Lord and Savior?” Hank takes up his glass and takes another sip. Hank would normally peg this guy for some sort of weird, new sect of Mormon if he didn’t know his name. Even then, these are some _strong_ and unnatural Mormon vibes.

“No. Not exactly.” He pauses, dark eyes roaming. “We can’t talk here. I need you to come with me.”

“Right, I’ll just follow you out into the back alley,” Hank snorts and turns away. “You know, this is funny an’ all, but you can cut it out. Who sent you, Fowler? Collins?” This is, probably, exactly Collin’s idea of a joke. Or the most ass-backwards way of reaching out. There are easier ways to get his attention.

Hank grasps for his glass again but Connor grabs it first. Hank watches in growing, incredulous anger as he pours the remainder of the drink out on the floor while staring Hank straight in the face. Now? Now he has his full attention.

“What’s your goddamn problem-"

“I already told you who sent me,” Connor interrupts evenly. The weird smile has been replaced with a solemn expression. “I understand your hesitation, but I do need you to come with me.”

“Fuck off.”

Connor blinks. “Is there somewhere you would be more comfortable for us to speak?”

He doesn’t look like he’s going to fuck off any time soon. In fact, it looks like Connor would be willing to stand there, staring at Hank, all night long like some sort of House of Wax reject. Hank can guess that if he stands up to leave, he’ll just follow him wherever he goes. If “fuck off” isn’t in his vocabulary, he doubts “no” or “hell no” are either.

That leaves a Hank with a lot of questions but not a lot of motivation to answer them. Starting with: what is this guy? He said he was an angel, which, no. That’s not a thing. Hank would- fuck, he would- after all the shit... after- no. It’s not a thing. Is he human? Maybe. Probably not. Demon? It’s possible, but if so, he skipped the day they handed out demonic energy and missed the whole “seduction” pamphlet that definitely gets circulated in hell.

Which leaves... every other supernatural creature out there.   

Hank looks at his glass, sitting empty on the counter. When he looks back up, Connor is looking at the tumbler. Must have finally mustered up the social grace to stop staring at Hank as if he was a particularly interesting informercial.  

“I’ll get you another drink,” Connor offers after a moment, “for the road.”

Now that’s something.

Hank thinks, sure. Sure, he can always salt and burn him on the road- or whatever it takes to put him in the ground. Especially with another drink.

He grumbles, shrugs, and pushes away from the bar. Hank shoves a finger at Connor.

“You’ve got my attention for a quick five minutes, got it asshole? And you buy me a hotdog.”

Connor beams like buying some middle-aged man a hotdog was on his bucket list. “Of course.”

Hank can’t find it in himself to be surprised at the way Connor follows him out of the bar, two feet too close. He’s still holding Hank’s new drink in hand when they pass under a streetlamp and it flickers.

Hank glances at Connor and his odd pleased face that doesn’t quite fit right. It’s a short walk to the food truck, he can see the neon glow of its sign from here. And yet he slows, eyes trained on the person walking beside him. Walking way too close.

“Thank you for lending me your trust,” Connor remarks, probably shooting for casual and missing by a mile. A second streetlamp flickers as he holds out Hank’s drink. “I know this may be hard to believe, but we’re on the same side. It would be good for the both of us if you didn’t make this more difficult than it needs to be.”

“Mmmhm,” Hank responds, and instead of taking the drink he plunges his hunting knife hilt-deep into the space between Connor’s ribs.


End file.
